I remember when we started early intervention. The thought behind it is that with a bit of intervention, my child would catch up to his peers. The reality is, at the time, I didn’t know that my view, and of the countless other experts, of the situation, was completely wrong. “Let’s get him the help he needs to catch up,” they would say. Of course, we wanted that! I mean, look at his sister so happy and healthy, in no
I used to think that when people had children with severe disabilities, it would be something detected in the womb, or shortly after birth—that it would be obvious that something was wrong. But this was not at all the case with our son, Asa. Asa is the third of three boys. He was born after a mere two hours of labor, a big healthy baby weighing 10lbs exactly. I remember a hospital staff member saying, “Congratulations—you have a toddler!” For
I am not going to sugar coat it. No one in this world loves my son more than me. No one in this world gets hurt by my son more than me. He pulls my hair, sometimes clumps in his hand. He kicks me, punches, and throws his body with no care forcing me to strain my muscles to the limits while also covering me in bruises. But the thing he does that has caused me the most pain and
Community Submission by: Anonymous I recently watched the movie “Lady Bird.” If you haven’t seen it, it’s the story of the relationship between a rebellious teen and her mother. I wouldn’t have normally resonated with this type of plot, but recently, my 11-year son and his hormones have been ruining my life (hormones + autism = horrible combination). So when the mother, played expertly by Laurie Metcalf, basically kicked her daughter out of the house, I was cheering from afar!
When we got the diagnosis of Phelan-McDermid Syndrome for my son, we were shocked. Our hearts sank, the mourning period began, and we realized that every expectation we had for our son was gone. As if overnight, all I could see was a never-ending list of therapies, doctors’ appointments, paperwork, and realizing it would never end. It felt defeating as a horrible battle between my brain and my heart began. So overcome with grief, I could not see clearly at
Typical, adjective, having the distinctive qualities of a particular type of person or thing. Oxford Dictionary I use this term a lot, as many other people do when referring to the general public. I probably use it too much when I think about “if only.” I know some people do not like this term, and I don’t blame them, I don’t either. I still daydream about “if only” Some days it’s just as simple as looking at my son. His
I used to joke that I had no idea how to wean a child without being pregnant with another one. Our oldest was nearly two when, in the second trimester with his younger brother, my body shifted its focus to the baby. My milk supply dwindled, and my son lost interest. It worked out brilliantly, without requiring me to take a tough stand. This was especially a relief because we have always called breastfeeding “boobies,” and our oldest was an
Implications on Me As it was nearing my son’s first birthday, his teacher and trusted caregiver at his day school handed us the first of many to come, “Ages and Stages,” a form with questions about at what level the child is performing specific tasks. I had never seen this with my typical daughter. She kindly suggested I fill it out and take it with me to my son’s 1-year checkup that would be the next week. A few weeks
“Your child won’t die from being home,” began the response that triggered this post. It wasn’t a response to anything I said or did. Still, a tightness grew in my chest as I realized this person had no idea what many parents and caregivers are going through at this very moment. This “letter” is for all the people who are wondering why others are fighting for their children to receive in-person education to stop continued regression even though I still
I made it ten years as a mother before I had to clean poop off of a wall. This isn’t a bad record considering we’ve had no break from changing diapers for the past decade. After all, many children go through a poop-smearing baby/toddler phase, and this is one gross habit my kids never got into—though there are plenty of others! A single, isolated poop-cleaning episode during year eleven of my marriage would not in itself be a noteworthy event—especially
